Cudmudgeon Protocols

Tired of the backchatter.

Fed up with the endless questioning of my memories, the denial of routes stolen and access lost by the coffee house icons of Seneca Rocks, and sick of the ease with which three decades of travel and hardship, discovery and loss, experience and knowledge across the North American continent are dismissed by the armchair experts and hard persons of NoVA and D.C. who come running to the defense if the faintest whiff of unpleasant truth disturbs the rosewater of their illusions.

Common sense would dictate silence, retreat in the face of overwhelming numbers, perhaps some compromise in a stance that draws a line in the sand without option for negotiation.

I've never had much use for that kind of common sense.  I suppose, after all these years of walking it as I talk it, whenever I can, in every aspect of my life where I have a choice, compromise of that sort sounds too much like a good cover story for surrender.

And who would ever accept sweet reason from me after all of the toes on which I have stomped, all of the egos bruised, all the carefully-polished reputations spat upon and exposed for the thin varnish they truly were?

Besides, what in the world would I do for fun if not toppling brass idols with feet of clay, slaughtering sacred cows, advocating chlorine in the gene pool and cannonballing into the status quo?

But enough sleepless nights, enough angry debates with myself.  Time to step back, to dig deep, to give a little gift to myself and for the small group of people who agree with my perspectives and share something of my vision.

Recent rains have left much of the rest of the Gypsy Wall dripping with run-off from the long band of cliffs angling slowly down the hill to this final panel of rock above a winding back road.  Gypsies and Shaved Scamper, my two moderate bolted lines on this wall, are both streaked with runnels of water trickling down the pocketed, fossil-sewn grey stone to my right.

The left end of the wall overhangsabout eighteen inches in forty feet and is almost entirely dry, despite a short rainshower.  As the sun comes out and breezes shake the budding leaves of spring, driving back the mosquitoes and biting flies if only for a moment, I stack rope and drill gear, paired aiders and a variety of hooks, daisy chains and cams on a massive finger of stone that rests at the base of a steep initial panel of rock, eight feet of stone devoid of the pockets so common in the layer above.

A loose flake or two the size of laptop computers come off with gentle tugs, and one six inches thick and as long as my arm yields to the stronger persuasion of a prybar,  dropping like a guillotine blade to bounce between my madly-dancing feet, followed by a steady rain of 'potato chips'.  Unlike a lot of the folks who have put up routes here recently, I control the rock fall and limit damage to the surrounding environment, building up the base, keeping debris out of the road below. 

Finally, the face is clean and I pause for a sip of water before shouldering the Beast, slipping on sunglasses and bouldering up into the first clip stance.  Raising the Bosch Litheon into position, I call out, "Fire in the hole" and pull the trigger.  Behind me, I hear Cindy acknowledge as the motor growls to life and rock dust flies from the 3/8 inch bit. 

And so it begins, again.

The metamorphic limestone is dense, and it takes almost a minute and a half to drill a full-depth hole, during which I am reminded of my reduced physical activities of late and my unceasing love of my wife's cooking and southern food in general.  Deer flies and gnats take advantage of my lack of free hands to reduce my blood levels, as hopeful buzzards dip and swoop above, eyeing this potential meal.  Cindy laughs and calls out the old refrain, "It's just his feet!"

Pulling the bottomed bit free, still spinning, I release the trigger and step down from the holds.  My lovely assistant Cindy takes the drill and I boulder back up to insert one end of the blow tube into the freshly-drilled hole.  A puff of fine grey powder blasts out of the hole, the shifting breeze ensuring that most of it falls towards my face, but I have already shut my eyes in anticipation of this and feel only the sifting on my eyelids.    A three mile-per-hour breeze negates the effectiveness of safety glasses every time, and will invariably blow in your face only when it will bring dust, rather than respite from biting insects or burning runnels of sweat.

Occupational hazards.

I boulder back down blind, lean over, remove my glasses and carefully brush the dust off my eyelids before opening my eyes again.  Interesting the first few times you try it, it gets annoying after a while, but it's all part of the price for doing things by the protocols, instead of taking the easier route of rap-bolting.

Back up to the hole, the 3/8 inch Hilti bolt with Fixe hanger sitting nicely in the hole as the three pound hammer swings once, twice, three times.  Pause to back the nut off right out to the end of the threads for full depth, another tap, and I swap hammer for wrench; three good turns and the nut comes under tension, guesstimating the torque is second nature after placing well over a thousand such bolts in my careers of carpenter, rigger and climber.

Back down to the belay, a last shot of coffee and a bit of granola, flame to brass and a kiss for the lass as I step into the soon-retiring Black Diamond harness and thread daisies, clip on chalk bag and tie in the rope, thread the free end through the Wall Hauler and tie into the drill for ease of access and drop free gear lifting, add a dozen draws and runners, hooks and some DMM cams to balance my #1, 2, and 3 Camalots, step into my beat-up Evolvs and pull on my battered Petzl helmet.

"Good knot and buckle." I mumble, almost on auto-pilot as I scope out the moves above the first bolt and ledge.

"I have you on a good system, " Cindy answers, "Go get some."

Good call.  When surrounded by jackals and posers and fools, goaded by idiots and has-been with convenient memories and undeserved reputations, then pushed to the point of despair by the sight of the blind leading the deaf, stick with what you know.

Curmudgeon protocols; harsh, but honest, to a fault; self-aware without being self-serving; calling it the way I see it, and holding myself to the strictest standards of all.  Accepting total responsibility for my own words and actions, with the priceless reward of complete freedom.

Like a teetering hook on a great line, not what you might have hoped for, but good enough; you learn to work with what you get.

I guess I can live with that.

The Blind Leading the Blind

Recently, I've taken some shots at guides and guide companies.

Not literally... that sort of thing only happens in REM sleep, thank God, otherwise the flower beds of Pendleton and Grant counties would be much more extensive.

I've been in the woods and on rock for most of what many people would call their productive time for the last three decades or so, hiked and climbed and camped from the blue mountains of the Appalachians and Alleghanies to the Rockies, the Santa Catalinas, Sangre de Cristos, Superstitions and both sides of the Sierra. 

I've known and met some damned fine guides in that time, and learned a great deal from them.

None of them would have insisted or even suggested that they represented the average guide, or the baseline on which the industry was based.

Here in the eastern Panhandle of West Virginia, we are blessed with a cornucopia of rock climbing opportunities;  Seneca Rocks, Franklin, Smoke Hole Canyon, Nelson Rocks, Judy Gap, and the wildly varied bands of cliffs lining North Fork Mountain for nearly 23 miles.

But there are also some incredible formations where access is an issue due far more to the actions and attitudes of the local guides than any other single factor. 

Why does this matter?  Why rock the boat, start shit, get in the middle of yet another fray?

Because it does matter. 

The record needs to be kept straight, not editted to keep someone's revised reputation shiny with a new generation of customers or for the edification of former customers who have only seen the salesman and party side, rather than the territorial elitist attitude with which a lot of the early developers of local climbing were greeted, often by people who get paid to do little more than babysit newbies.

Again, don't get me wrong; guides have put up some amazing, futuristic lines at Seneca and Nelson, and across the nation.  They've built trail and replaced hardware, contributed to charities and donated guiding services to benefit and uplift disabled children.

As much of an asshole as I am, I pet puppies and hug babies, too.

And this ain't a "you were mean to me back then and now I'm getting even" thing, either.  I've enjoyed climbing stolen lines like I enjoy dancing with my ex-girlfriends... I know who had her first...  And convenience of memory is nothing I am troubled with... or else I wouldn't try so hard to be better than the climber and person I was when I began. 

My own mistakes are many: I've pissed away enough good will to float and fill an oil tanker, I speak plain truth to people who have no experience absorbing that level of honesty, I have no patience with fools, myself chief among them, and I keep trying to talk to people who don't give a rat's ass about responsibility or access, not really and truly, as long as they can pay someone to tell them it's okay to bring their dogs to the crag and that half a day every six months will keep the crags of the world open, along with your one hundred dollar check.  I preach to the choir and have wasted several decades trying to light water on fire and restart the heart of a self-absorbed zombie rock climbing culture that lives for the next DVD or Rendezvous, not the challenge of edge-of-your-seat new routes in crags that are not groomed garden paths or the satisfaction of a trail well built that blends into the landscape, rather than defining it.

If we don't own our mistakes, we cannot show the true causes of our access issues to the newest generation attempting to solve them.  And failure to lay blame where it belongs is allowing those who owe the community an apology to thrive on the efforts of others without acknowledging their contributions to the ongoing problems of the region.

We still can't just walk through an open meadow and cross the river to climb at Champe Rocks, because guides trespassed there for years right in plain view of the owners and public.  We cannot climb on Snowy Mountain Road because guides ignored verbal warnings and climbed over a clearly-posted fence to reach a face from which they promptly fell and were injured.  We cannot climb on the towering, private cliffs around Nelson Rocks Preserve because the guides of that establishment have, in years past, gone where ever they pleased and climbed as they liked, ironic considering the extent to which the last owner of the Preserve went to post his own property when first taking posession.  and we will never enjoy the kind of easy rapport with the owners of Baker Rocks that climbers first experienced before a guide ignored landowner requests and lost that access, perhaps for good.

Guides have done a great deal in this region and elsewhere in the climbing world, but little of it has not in some way or another benefitted their careers and/or their work environment.  Before you pat a guide on the back too hard for fixing up the crag, ask yourself how much fixing the crag would have needed in the first place, if not for guides and the countless hordes of clients they lead across the faces of crags across America.

Not a popular stance, but food for thought, and hope for a clear perspective on impact and access.

Spring Send-a-thon: No Free T-Shirts Required

Trail work and trash clean-up, new climbers on new lines, no dogs, no national press coverage, and no free T-shirts required.

Ronin's Road

Some pics from the Ronin's Road

No Place Like Home

The sink is leaking.  The tub drain stopper doesn’t work.   The toilet leaks.  The gutter pours more water on our doorstep than the storm does when it rains.  There are no screens and the walls and floor were filthy when we moved in.  

The landlord and his son are a pair of tragic comedians without meaning to be so, displaying more stupidity and ineptitude in one day of “maintenance” than I have witnessed in twenty years on construction sites.

But the floors are hardwood, a mix of local pine and cherry, mismatched, but swirled with gorgeous grain.  Our apartment is actually part of state history, an old classroom in what was one of the first schools for Negro children in Petersburg.  From the back window the Allegheny mountains roll away to the northeast, where blossoms of sarvis, redbud, apple, cherry, peach, and locust have begun to touch the dark grey-blue hills with color.

Another city, another epiphany of beauty in the midst of the rush and confusion, the grinding impatience and frustration, the endless waiting and sheer nonsensical hilarity of this thing called life.

There’s no place like home.

I must be thinking out loud again, because Cindy smiles that incredible smile and says one of those things that take my breath away.

“As long as I’m with you, I am home.”  She looks down at slender, graceful hands, one balancing a book, and nods as Dire Straits swings like sultans in the background of our tiny apartment.

 

“When we were out west, we talked about ‘home’, or-” she smiles and looks up at me over her glasses, “-’back east’ as you started calling it when we were trying to settle in.”  Twin vertical lines appear between her eyes as those dark windows focus back over the last two years, and clouds drift over that sunny smile. 

“But we’ve gone so many places without finding a ‘home’, no matter how hard we tried.  Then we came home, but it wasn’t home, ever, not in the way we wanted it to be.”  She sighs, pushes hair away from her eyes.  “We’ve met so many people and lost touch with most of them and we kind of made ‘home’ where ever we both were.” 

Another smile, and she looks down at her hands again, my slender brown Madonna, curled like a cat in a rocking chair made in Nicaragua, wrapped in a black cotton khaftan from the opposite side of the world. 

“I like it that way.”

As do I, my love.

Thousands of miles of displacement, to so many places, doing such an assortment of things in a determined effort to make a home, the lessons learned and truths witnessed in a quest that never coalesced into that elusive prize have changed all the rules, perceptions and definitions. 

We’ve lived (as ‘extended houseguests’) in luxury and dwelt in the definition of austerity (a 12 by 24 foot studio apartment in a decaying hotel), fought rush hour traffic and bedbugs and black mold, crack head neighbors and ossified bureaucracy, camped in metropolis and on the edge of the wilderness, on moss and snow and sand and grass.  We’ve pulled cactus spines and lichen and a wide assortment of spiders from our persons, clothing, bedding, and tents, learned to sleep with the sound of trains and freeways and coyotes and bears snuffling through camp, and eaten more rice and beans than some locals in Nogales.  

We’ve memorized the basic street layout, rush hours, public transit, trash services, bad neighborhoods, recreational opportunities, area and zip codes of five major metro areas and a dozen outlying regions in which we routinely traveled, volunteered or camped.

We survived crossing the continent aboard Greyhound Bus Lines, twice, and if I ever find myself aboard another Greyhound, I will know that I have indeed died and gone to the deepest circle of Hell.

We have the run from east coast to west dialed, down to the day and the dollar; miles per gallon (25), miles per hour (65-75), hours per day (8-12), miles to destination (4027.6), power drinks, water, coffee and snacks in the cooler, everything it takes to cook, camp, and conduct the basics of daily life packed into a 4-by-5-by-7-foot space behind the cab and an endless supply of topics to discuss, even after all these miles and what is hard to believe has only been five years since I met this amazing woman and began the process of detachment and surrender that led to this Journey in the first place.

And now we find ourselves home, but without a home.

We have found shelter, and for that I am truly grateful as the storms of spring bring the heat and insects of summer.  I can see that Cindy has blossomed over this past year, making an amazing assortment of jewelry, hiking for miles in some pretty astounding terrain, on full days even I found to be a test, setting and surpassing personal goals in her climbing and keeping a positive energy through so many trials.

But I know she is tired.  As am I; tired, a little road worn, slightly disillusioned, and low on enthusiasm for sacred cows and cliché perspectives.

Well it’s rainin’ out in California

And up north it’s freezin’ cold

And this livin’ on the road

Is getting’ pretty old.

Or is it believin’ in just livin’, that’s such a hard way to go?

We’ve fought with the apathy of bureaucracy, the inner demons of anger and control and depression, battled together against Cindy’s Multiple Sclerosis with natural medicines augmented by lots of love and laughter and adventure, with good music, great food and an assortment of books for the rest days.  Our journey has led through an amazing cornucopia of natural wonders on public lands, stumbling across a vast, lost history that slumbers along the byways, tiny milestones of our heritage unseen in the race to the horizon.

We have shouted in too many deaf ears, listened to too many false promises and danced to the tune of too many repetitive, predictable rationalizations.  Too many people filled with envy for what they see as our 'leisure' (instead of determination and sacrifice) to live a dream the envious would not dare follow.

The perception may exist that we are ‘homeless by choice’, that Cindy could have remained here and stayed in standard treatment and I could have found work in the Valley, at the mill, retrained for employment, et cetera.

That conceit suffers from two fatal flaws: the first; that I could sit idly by and watch the woman I was falling in love with slowly die from the experimental drugs and narcotics that did nothing to treat her disease, only to mask its effects.

The second; that we would long remain free and outside the walls of a federal penitentiary given the zeal with which the war on Americans known as the Drug War was pursued by RUSH Task Forces and other acronym-laden police arms of Prohibition.

We had to leave, quite simply, so that we could remain free long enough for Cindy to heal.  Here in the East, disinformation and prejudice about medical use of cannabis has been deeply ingrained in people that routinely use opioids without a thought, people who are admittedly addicted to their assorted anti-depressants and pain relievers, who regularly vote for harsher penalties on cannabis users.

But the availability of medications for fighting Cindy’s disease and for use as a general sleep aid, performance enhancer (forget Red Bull and Viagra!) and guaranteed effective-every-time analgesic turned out to be just a foot note in the adventure, albeit a welcome one.  Cindy discovered lion’s mane extract, a natural fungal extract created by Fungi Perfecti, the company owned by Paul Stamets, one of the world’s leading researchers into the uses of mushrooms and fungus in ancient cultures and as modern medical alternatives.

With regular ingestion of cannabis s and lion’s mane extracts, the change in Cindy’s health and functionality was revolutionary.  If this had been a product produced by one of the large medical companies, we would be on every talk show in America and writing the book and screenplay by now.

Instead, we kept track of the changes, as her nerves regenerated and the spasms in her legs and arms stopped.  The burning and tingling under her skin at the slightest pressure faded, as surface sensitivity, long overwhelmed by the static of overload, slowly returned.  She woke up better and faster, functioned more clearly, and showed improved memory, energy and reflexes. With the cannabis, she was able to eat and rest on “bad days” or after extreme exertion, usually recovering in two days instead of the week it had taken when we first met. 

Her Multiple Sclerosis episodes became infrequent, then virtually non-existent, beyond some occasional tiredness, usually on bad weather days when the titanium buried throughout her body ached in time to her arthritic spine and knees.  On those days, it was hot cannabis tea for breakfast, or pancakes with special butter, or the simple expedient of a deep lungful or two of some Indica strain that would level the boom on the pain.  Brownies or Ronin’s Rational Pasta Sauce for lunch, when the chef definitely exposed himself to the dangers of second-hand smoke, and then whatever milady might need til it was time to call it a night.

We went on websites and chat rooms and forums and shared this miraculous transformation on Facebook and Blogger.  No one wanted to know, beyond the people who already knew, who had relocated to cannabis-friendly states to avoid going to prison for being sick.  Our families operated in a frenzy of avoidance, trying at any cost to steer around the topic.  The cure for several of the most devastating diseases on earth, including cancer, had been found, and no one wanted to talk about it.

We gathered in, tightened down, cut away the dead weight and honed our art.  Life assumed a simple rhythm of rest and work, sleeping and eating, reading and sending emails and news, gathering and recycling the tons of aluminum and glass scattered along the highways of this country, tending to assorted chores during irregular forays into town, exploring the incredible array of mountains and canyons, forests and rivers in which we found ourselves traveling and camping.  Packing gear and making snacks, mixing energy drinks, to rise early and drive or hike out after it on some sweet chunk of stone either unknown or just unoccupied, or not, sharing the dawn with whatever other hardy souls have come out to greet the sun, stringing ropes and setting gear, clipping bolts and pulling until your flesh surrenders to the distance between desire and mortality.  Listening to the deep silence as it seeps into the inner spaces of your heart and stills the raging seas.

We have watched with the rest of the country as our elected representatives have lied and stolen, cheated and lost control, destroyed and covered their tracks, justified tyranny with security, wrapping their sins and errors in the flag, as did those in whose shadow they stand, in whose tracks they have walked.  Without the daily distractions of milk for the cat, vet appointments, kids’ plays, house payments, an ailing water heater, road work on the daily commute, office politics as usual, or reality TV, we’ve absorbed more than our share of raw data as our leaders have dismantled the country’s most basic and sacred safe checks and institutions, and as sensible people have supported demagogues whose only interest lay in the mirror.

We cranked out new lines and old, repaired and hiked trails I’d laid a decade ago, ate lots of citrus and local red chili burritos, camped under the stars of Apache Leap and talked about what America was becoming, from where we stood. 

In the west, where there was progress towards ending the pointless war on cannabis, we dealt with shady dispensaries, shifting city ordinances and political games between corrupt law officials and over-zealous supporters of legalization.  Meanwhile, knock-off oxycodone and hydrocodone and high grade methamphetamines were pouring in courtesy of the cartels. 

In the gorgeous desert where we camped and climbed, a huge multinational mining operation was threatening, no, actually, they were promising to destroy or render unusable land of incredible significance to both national and climbing history.  Resolution Copper was looking to save a few pennies on the ton for the vast wealth they were digging out from under the gorgeous plateau of Apache Leap, by using practices that no American mining company could legally employ, and they were (and still are) doing so with the support of Congress members who had sworn to defend this country and its interests and ideals.  Recreational users had fallen to infighting and squabbling over old feuds, and the classic areas had been beaten to dust as the tide of development and involvement simply turned away, leaving Queen Creek and Devils Canyon to their own fates. The advocacy groups which claim to represent climbers had only this year put a field operative in place, after this issue has gone on for most of the last decade.

It made you want to ask people what they were smoking, because cannabis does NOT make you that stupid.

Meanwhile, back in the city, in microcosm of the rest of the nation, pro-cannabis advocates tried to reconcile thug-lovers and trustafarians with Baby Boomers and middle-class grandmas, much the same way a man might attempt to herd cats with a badminton racquet, while the people who made millions waging the war on drugs just kept pushing the same old stereotypes and disinformation we had seen in the east.

It got old.

Damned old.

We had built trail, hosted events, and fed the homeless on a pittance, and we watched organizations and communities with millions in resources and massive PR machines pretend that they had no grasp of how to deal with obvious problems and realistic solutions.  Government and the advocacy groups clearly did not want to find solutions when they make a career out of searching for them, and the puppets who fund both deny the strings that jerk them around. Government officials tasked with providing volunteers with tools and missions are too burned out, under-funded, or unmotivated and clueless to have anticipated the next sunset.  Climbers were too caught up in the next Rendezvous, climbing DVD, pub crawl or gym session to do more than post on Facebook when we tried to share the truth, too focused on ‘the scene’ in exotic locations to find time to explore the wonders right at their doorstep.

We prayed, we meditated, we tried so hard, and in the end we simply stopped giving a damn on a lot of levels.  The price of ‘home’ seemed too high; crime, bureaucracy, wasted work and money while the real needs went unanswered, and the endless headache of dealing with hundreds and thousands of people going about the business of hating their very existence. 

Far worse were the givers.  Most of the people who seemed interested in our stories or offered any kind of job or help were like bad fairies out of an old Grimm tale; they either stung like scorpions out of sheer kindness, or we could not get rid of them, and/or they were mad as bloody hatters. 

We kept digging for those precious nuggets; loving the adventure and yet dumbfounded as our assorted friends donated to, supported, and promoted the stories of much better funded people who were doing the same thing we were, living on the road, but doing so with a film crew and corporate sponsors, without building trail or replacing hardware or putting up new lines, without the complications of Multiple Sclerosis, an empty bank account, and no fall-back to which one could retreat if things went astray.  Hot chicks in a new truck with a shiny Airstream are apparently more of what ‘soul climbing’ is about than two people in their fifties living out of a 6 x 8 foot tent, nursing a twelve-year-old truck across the country on a wing and a prayer.  

As we traveled, and in the many camps we had set, Cindy made some truly fine jewelry from native stones we found on our hikes, for which I created a webpage which was showered with praise and attention and Facebook ‘Likes’ by people who then turned around and bought their birthday and holiday gifts from strangers with a good sales pitch.

Faith is a gift we receive, if we are blessed, at a young age.  Losing it is a terrible battle, sometimes, or the stroke of a bolt out of the blue.  Trying to recall the exact moment at which you first felt that loss is like trying to catch hold of the retreating tide; it rushes away… it all rushes away.

But I stop, and put out my hand, and Cindy looks up from her book and smiles as I touch her cool skin, putting a finger in her book to close it as she reaches out to cover my hand with hers.

“What?”

And I know, again, how we have made it, so far, through so much, and how there always seems to be something to hold on to. 

Love.

Love levels all preconceptions of  your own heart, or what it can take, how many times it can break, and heal, and rise up to beat on. Love lifts the glory of the morning mountains and rolling clouds out of the rain, finds the tiny flowers that thrive along the shore of the flood, silences all of your laments against the song of a billion billion stars in a desert sky. 

Love fills an empty belly better than food, holds back the chill of night better than the warmest wrap, casts light into depths no lantern can plumb.  Love finds courage when the battle is long since lost, strength when there is no further to go, laughter to greet the arrogant advance of despair, and hope, to rise up, each one of us, all broken anew and remade, to try, once again, to forge dreams into days. 

Love is hearth and home in the midst of the wastelands.  Love is the unique note, echoing forever between two people, struck at the right time and in the right way to resonate, just so, a harmonic only they can taste, but which fills the world and souls around them with light and laughter.  Love connects families across the miles and beyond this veil of tears.  Love is the unspoken knowledge that true friends remain friends, even through the silence of years.

The bittersweet truth is that you cannot go home again, for ‘home’ is a shadow on the grass, a moving shape in the clouds, a whisper on the winds.

Home is not where the heart is.  Home is what the heart is.

We traveled thousands of miles to return to the place where it all began, only to find that the place we sought was gone with the winds that had first taken us away.

The sink is dripping.  The tub drain stopper doesn’t work.   The toilet leaks.  The gutter pours more water on our doorstep than the storm does when it rains, and it looks like rain. 

No worries.

We have enough love to weather any storm.

With love, there is no place like home.

One from the Back of the Rack

The Price of Prohibition

Check out the evolving cost of the Drug War at http://www.drugsense.org/cms/wodclock

All Else is Silence

Saw a news broadcast last night telling me that the Congressional "Gang of Eight" are working on a visa system to allow "thousands of low tech workers into America to fill labor demands."

Apparently, I missed the nationwide announcement and ensuing celebration when unemployment for our own citizens fell to 0%.  I definitely missed the call from whoever it is that has my new job and paycheck just waiting, from the housing authority with a ready apartment or home or even corner room in the barn that my wife and I can move into immediately, no background check or interview required.

We just released over one thousand detainees, some of them guilty or suspected of crimes far worse than illegal immigration, some of them linked to the cartels we are claiming to battle, some repeat offenders with a half dozen kids and thousands of dollars in unmade child support payments, children who will be taking grants and filling spaces in our universities as well as our job market, because apparently it the fault of American citizens, not their parents, that they were born here to illegal aliens.

And we just put those illegals right back into that job market, while Americans in that same store roam the aisles with empty carts, amid slim prospects, trying to mortgage their dreams with the worthless promises of a corrupt administration.

Eight states and the district of Columbia allow gay marriage, and most people really couldn't care less, would certainly never suggest that resolving the issue will stabilize the economy or unite the country.  The government is not currently spending a single thin dime to interdict gay marriage, prevent gay people from crossing the border, arrest gay pastors, seize the furniture and assets and buildings of churches where gay marriages are being performed, or using the RICO Act to prosecute people who have made a career of planning gay weddings.

But this topic dominated every newscast, every discussion panel and forum, on the internet, radio and television for the last week, as the SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES considered a question "newer than cell phones or the Internet", whether or not the "right to marry" and thus, gay marriage, was a human right, instead of merely a codified piece of civil registration and fee schedules that makes county and city governments a tidy little revenue from the happiness of couples in their jurisdiction.

Meanwhile, EIGHTEEN states have decriminalized medical uses of cannabis, Colorado and Washington State have legalized it entirely for recreational or medical use by responsible adults, the District of Columbia is getting ready to open its first dispensary and ten more states are discussing legislation to regulate, decriminalize, or legalize.  TRILLIONS of dollars have been spent, millions of man hours used, and the lives of tens of thousands of American citizens have been ruined.

But this same Supreme Court refused to even hear arguments for why the Federal Government should consider rescheduling or removing from the schedule an herb that has not caused a single fatality in the history of mankind.  There is no dialogue for differentiating between this herb and its cousin the industrious hemp plant.  There is no support or tolerance for an exchange of ideas that would let us rejuvenate our nation and end a war on our own people to protect corporate profit margins.

And while they continue the siege, these mountebanks, these autocratic, self-important, overfed, overweening fools have the audacity to come to the nation and say, with the emotionally-wrought pleas of an easily-manipulated crowd of idealists echoing behind them, that we must now give up our small arms because the United Nations, an organization to which we have not regularly paid dues or even attention in decades, now insists we do so, even as it insists that we continue the war on drugs and the failed racist policies of prohibition.

Free will cannot die in this deluge of irrational acts, no matter how deeply bowed by the anchor chains of regret, no matter how suffocated by the shroud of despair.  It can only catch fire, burning brightly, unafraid of the cost of speaking out, of speaking true.  If illegal immigrants need a "path to citizenship", if their children need a nation with opportunity and a future, then LET THEM GO HOME AND FREE THEIR OWN NATIONS!

And if the government of the United States is considering withdrawing troops from the Middle East, might I suggest that, instead of the Korean theater you have quite obviously been preparing ever since we chose to go to war with a country that "might" have Weapons of Mass Destruction (Iraq... oh, and Afghanistan????) instead of the one that had just proven their possession of the same by setting one off for the whole world to see, might I instead be bold enough, to have the crass audacity to suggest that we invade South America, kill the juntas and the tribunals and the narcolombians and CIA cash cows and that we wipe MS13 from the face of the world?

Or would that just get rid of too many boogeymen at one time, leaving virtually nothing to divide the United States, or the new United Hemisphere of Independent States?  No need for the prisons, the cops, the SWAT teams, no more material for COPS or candidates for American Midol, REAL lives to lead instead of a narcotic haze of vague fear and dissatisfaction?

Keep dreaming.

But this final word of promise, and all else is silence.

Keep sticking it to us, Washington, Wall Street, assorted state legislatures and police forces and extremists on the left and right.  Keep reaching through the bars with a long, sharp stick, poking at that vaguely-glimpsed shape that grumbles and stirs but still slumbers, slowly waking to rage, in the back corner of the golden cage you have built around mankind.

You will not rest, for you have sown the wind, and the wasteland in your heart hungers for that harvest.  You will not cease, until you wake the Dragon.

And on that day, in the hour when one burning eye finally opens and fixes you with its unwavering hunger, its unforgiving judgement and unquenchable rage, you will rest, this I promise you, for my hands will join the rising tide of millions who will put you to rest.

In peace, or in pieces.

Eagle Rocks: the unofficial guide

Eagle Rocks

Eagle Rocks is a cluster of vertical limestone fins jutting from the flanks of Cave Mountain.  The Rocks are blessed with a plethora of cracks, aretes, dihedrals, and faces, vaguely reminiscent of Seneca in much the same way that the Tetons are reminiscent of breasts.  The 10th Mountain Division trained and climbed here, as had God knows how many brave little naked red hunters and local sweethearts; exposed to the elements and subject at any time to any of a number of sudden, perhaps catastrophic geological changes.  This formation is one of the icons of the canyon, and is located just 2.2 miles from the Route 220 intersection on the south-east end of the canyon.  Opposite the campground entrance is the grave of William Eagle, Revolutionary War hero and local legend.

The Rocks are covered with semi-detached flakes, stacks of loose stone, precariously-balanced blocks the size of stoves.  Trees, debris, and indeed entire large portions of the numerous faces can and will fall off without provocation or warning.  Apparently-solid rock can suddenly fracture and plunge earthward, taking you with it and sucking your belayer right through the first quickdraw.  Massive sections of the talus slope below can shift or collapse without warning, including sections which have until then been stable for years, centuries even.  Trails were established by whitetail deer, black bear, local climbers and other unstable forms of indigenous life, and cannot be counted on not to hurl you to a painful and untimely death or even to get you to the crag and back again without winding up like the Donner party. 

Venomous snakes, stinging insects, biting animals, and vicious plants can and likely will attack you for absolutely no discernible reason, at any time, anywhere.  Being outside is a risky business, and you probably shouldn't do it if you are unwilling or unable to accept those risks as your own responsibility.

Climbing Eagle Rocks is especially dangerous, for the reasons noted above and many, many more.  The face is spotted with old pins and ring angles left behind by soldiers before the Second World War, some of them psychotic killers, many of them unstable young men terrified by the enormous exposure and pushed to the limits of sanity by bad food, homesickness, venereal disease contracted from local girls, abuse from overbearing homophobic drill instructors and the challenge of trying to follow driving instructions from the locals.  Almost all of them arrived and departed equally inexperienced in the placement of protection (thus the venereal diseases).  A few, like Fred Becky, went west and figured it out way up in Leavenworth, WA or out in the Sierras. 

More modern gear like rappel anchors, face bolts, and cold shuts may have been and likely was installed by drug-addled, brain-damaged trad climbers with a pathological resentment of gymbies and newcomers, deeply-seated antisocial issues, no sense of personal safety or respect for the sanctity of human life, and an addiction to Yuengling Black and Tan. 

(Of course the author has no personal knowledge of this possibility.)

No anchor, bolt, piton or ring angle should be trusted to save your life.  Of course, removing these items, as well as found biners, gear laying on ledges or left in cracks and pockets or anything else that you didn't bring with you constitutes reckless endangerment, vandalism, destruction of private property, and theft and the landowners as well as the NFS will likely prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. 

Don't steal our stuff.  Not our hardware, not our beta, not our projects, and not our gear.  Lynching is socially embarrassing, and prison is a bad place, worse even than Eagle Rocks, and you don't want to go there.  The coffee is horrible, there's no Net Flix, and room service is something you really don't want.

While Eagle Rocks are private property, the family which owns it is pretty casual about access.  They are also pretty casual about having the aging outhouses pumped or picking up trash or mowing.  Camping is pick your spot and do as you please, fees are collected sporadically, usually late in the morning, by the aging landowner.  Climbing is your call and your liability: you cross the river, you take responsibility for yourself.

There is no real record of who first climbed the trad and aid lines of Eagle Rocks, or indeed much of Smoke Hole.  Every first ascent is a theoretical first ascent in an area so devoid of shared knowledge and so commonly visited by strong climbers in the early days of climbing. What records exist have rarely been available to climbers, and requests for information are a fine way to waste a rainy morning or fill a gap in the conversations on the front porch.   Routes listed are those the author has climbed, names given are for reference and to avoid endlessly calling everything “Unknown #13”.  Route descriptions begin with the West End (the left side of the front, in other words).

West End

The West End of Eagle consists of Little Eagle, a small buttress, adjoining The Chimney Face, a corner of ledges and incredibly featured (and fractured) faces, culminating in a wide, rotten chimney running the entire height of Eagle Rock.  Undoubtedly, this face has seen many fine epics, ascents, and retreats, but there has been little to no consistent record keeping of these milestones.  The author has rapped, top-roped, and even led portions of this face, and recommends strongly that anyone choosing to set out on the sharp end climb extensively on other Eagle lines or on rock of the same quality and composition before attempting what you think will be a new line.  A wealth of moderate and horrifying routes alike can be winnowed from the cracks and faces of the corner.  Several long cracks split the right side of the dihedral, with tons of loose and/or low-quality rock, rotten cracks, bee’s nests that stay active year round, poison ivy, and everything else that goes with the term “epic climb”.  It is also important to remember that, lichen and loose rock aside, few if any “new” trad lines remain to be plucked on such a prominent feature so close to the road. 

Little Eagle**** (5.7PG, natural anchors, pro to 3 inches, 55 feet.  Climb the short, featured river face of the small pillar formation at the far left (downstream) end of Eagle Rocks.  At mid-height, move up right to a vegetated ledge below a face, make a few unprotected moved to easier ground and a fantastic finish.  Rap from boulders or walk off.

To the right of this, around the arête, is the South Face.

South Face

Karma Cracks***** (5.9 R/PG, gear to 6 inches, anchors at belay stations 1 and 3, 285 feet)  (P1) 40’ from the left end of the formation base, up and left of the steps leading up from the old road, climb a short grungy face to a ledge, usually inhabited by poison ivy to some degree or other.  Move up and left to a stance with a two bolt ring anchor.  45‘  (P2) Move up and left into an obvious slot on the face above, which leads into a wide crack snaking up a clean face.  Climb several exciting moves up and right where the wide crack ends to gain another good crack.  Climb this to a stance at a pine tree in a beautiful corner to end on the Original Route, or climb up and left to gain a wide ledge with a beautiful cedar tree and the featured end of the fin.  100‘  (P3 Original Route) Climb the corner to a vegetated ramp/ledge that climbs steeply up and right towards the top of the main formation, ending at a set of rings on a fin of rock above the crack that ends Welcome to Eagle Rocks. 65 feet   (P4 Silhouette Variation) From the ledge with the cedar climb the sweet cracks and face of the West End to the top and traverse the knife edge to anchors.

The Original Route**** (5.6R/PG) - From the road, the corner that leads to the final crack is fairly obvious.  From the ground, it can be harder to find.  Begin in a low angle, left-facing dihedral, which can get pretty vegetated in spring and summer.  Move up into steeper and hopefully cleaner climbing in the long, moderate dihedral, moving right to gain the Welcome mid-face station or belaying from the gear placements and stance of your choice. Gain the ledge below the final crack and follow classic moves to the top.

Welcome to Eagle Rocks***** (5.8 R/PG, gear to 4 inches, rings, 190 feet)-  Near the center of the West Face, about 30 feet right of the steps up from the old road, begin in a right-facing corner formed by a huge flake/ramp.  (P1) Boulder up to access a ledge with a column of freestanding blocks leading to a left-facing dihedral/flake.  Climb classic flake and stemming with slightly runout pro to finally gain a ledge with two trees and a comfortable stance at ring anchors in the middle of the face.  100 feet.  Enjoy a snack, shoot some pictures, or just swap gear and head into (P2) Move left around the loose flakes overhead to gain a corner and flakes.  Climb enjoyable flake and face moves up to a ledge below a slot/crack.  Climb the slot and crack to a stance up and right at ring anchors. 90 feet. 

Patriot Games**** (5.8 R, gear to 4 inches, natural anchors/shared, 190 feet)  From the end of the first pitch of Welcome, climb up and right to gain a series of corners, ledges, and detached flakes.  Climb flakes and corners past old ring pins to gain a stance just below the flag and notch in the face near fading graffiti ED.  Move up thru rattley flakes and ledges to end at a walk off or 4^th class around the top to gain the rap anchors above the Notch or (this is actually free-soloing- stay roped up!)  the anchors of Welcome.

Kimmel’s Corner**** (5.8, gear to 4 inches, 80 feet) - Instead of starting on the Welcome column and corner, move right 20 feet and climb the long flake and face to eventually gain the mid-face belay ledge.  Beware loose blocks just before you reach the belay. 

William’s Way**** (5.5 R/PG, gear to 4 inches, 300 feet) - Climb the first pitch of Obvious Direct.  At the mid-face belay, wander up and right, across mainly 4^th class ledges, to gain the Notch and more 4^th class terrain.  Switchback, free solo and scramble up through the Notch to the top.

Local stories hold that a Native American local used to climb this route every year on the 4^th of July, to commemorate William Eagle’s ascent of the rock in search of an eagle’s nest and a lost lamb.

The Notch and Eastern Buttress

At the center of the formation, a large Notch divides the South Face from the Eastern Buttress.  At the base of this feature, a crack/dihedral accesses the 4^th class terrain and faces above. 

Notch Direct*** (5.8+ PG, gear to 4 inches, natural anchors, 100 feet) - Climb the crack through a small overhang, then follow cracks and corners up and right.  Chase 4^th class ledges back and forth to the top or climb the surprisingly challenging faces at the center of the Notch.  Exit via rap anchors on the back of the fin to the right (east) of the Notch.

This entire section of the cliff is a drain for the face and ridge above.  It can get pretty tangled with fallen branches and leaves, and stay wet for long after the other faces have dried.  Beware of snakes and bees.

Notch Indirect** (5.7PG, gear to 4 inches, natural anchors, 100 feet) – Boulder/scramble up left from the base of the crack, through easier to climb but harder to protect terrain, until you reach a vegetated ledge.  Move right back into the original corner.

Just left of the Notch is a surprisingly flat, high-angle slab face.  A line of bolts ascends this face to a set of ring anchors.  This is the Begoon-Hensley Route.

Begoon-Hensley**** (5.11, 6 bolts, ring anchors, 65 feet) Thirty feet right of the Notch, a clean greenish face sports a single line of bolts.  Follow ripples and grooves past 6 bolts to reach the anchors.  While this is a bolted route, it is NOT a sport line.  The anchor was installed by the author after the tree originally used fell off in a storm.

Orange Dihedral**** (5.9PG, gear to 4 inches, natural anchors, 135 feet) To the right of the Begoon-Hensley route, the face ends in an overhanging cave-like formation, leading into a left-facing dihedral.  Climb the dihedral to a small slab ledge with a tree, and belay there (no bolted anchors), or run it on up to the summit and rappel with two ropes from trees, or from the anchors on the back of the fin about 50 feet west or downstream.  You can also walk about 75 feet east (upstream, towards Cave Mountain) and come around the end of the entire formation to scramble down through deep leaves and forest back to the base.  This line often has poison ivy growing in the middle of the long first pitch.

There are numerous small faces to the left (south) of the Orange Dihedral that can be set up as top ropes or leads.  Beware all the usual hazards: poisonous and thorny vegetation, loose rock, snakes and bees, and sketchy protection.

Reason Lies Far From Home

"Seriously ill persons who need marihuana to treat their symptoms are forced to choose between their health and their liberty. If they choose their health, they must go to significant lengths to obtain the marihuana they need, including lengthy trips to purchase the drug, resort to the black market, and living with the constant stress that at any time they could be subject to criminal prosecution.

These already sick individuals must further cope with the added stress of the stigma and social rejection of friends, family and members of the public who see them as criminals.

This is not to mention the real fear of losing one's doctor simply by inquiring about the drug and damage to the patient-doctor relationship."

While our Supreme Court refuses to even entertain evidence to change the scheduling of cannabis, Ontario's Supreme Court struck down all that province's medical marijuana laws until such time as the government sees fit to create a functioning structure instead of an obstacle course.  The Court put the Government on 30-day notice to resolve the issue before the law took effect.

Hey, Mister Obama, assorted Justices... Why don't we "create a path" for citizens to get their meds, like Ontario, before we worry about giving away any more jobs or spending money instead of making it?

http://www.cannabisculture.com/content/2011/04/13/Ontario-Judge-Rules-Canadas-Marijuana-Laws-Unconstitutional